


Primum Omen

by everchangingmuse



Category: Roman Mythology - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:27:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everchangingmuse/pseuds/everchangingmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just an ordinary day for Tanaquil and her mother.  Spinning. Talking. Interpreting an omen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Primum Omen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lysimache](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysimache/gifts).



"It makes no sense!" I whisper my outrage to my mother. We sit together on a couch, away from the slave girls, at our spinning. "My husband is every bit as qualified as they are! Every bit as worthy! More so, in some respects. And this is the fourth time he has been denied the office he seeks."

Mother's expression remains schooled, the perfect mask of serenity and concentration. "You know how the men of Tarquinii think, Tanaquil."

"They are stubborn old fools." I pause. "Except for Father."

Mother's mask slips just long enough to give me _that_ look. The one she reserves only for moments when she feels I am being petulant. "Tradition is very important to our tribe," she says. "Lucumo's father was not of our tribe. Some men hold to the tradition that he is therefore less of a Tarquinii and therefore less worthy."

Surely the mother's tribe is more important than the father's? It is in the womb of the mother that a child is carried. A man can always be certain of his mother, and can always call his mother's hearth his own. That argument, however, we have had, and I have lost. "Had Father believed in that tradition, Lucumo and I would not have been married," I say instead.

Mother inclines her head. Neither agreement nor disagreement. I consider my own words. Father is many things. Progressive of thought is not always considered one of them. Lucumo is a good enough man for his daughter to have married, but not good enough to contribute to the running of the tribe. It makes me wonder of how much worth Father really considers me. And how much of my marriage to Lucumo was his doing, and how much was Mother's.

"He is a good man." I must press my case. Perhaps she can persuade Father to speak to the elders on my Lucumo's behalf. "He is generous to a fault, and with such ideas! He could change the Tarquinii for the good. He has thought of new ways to increase the tribe's prosperity. You should hear his ideas, Mother. I have heard nothing like them before."

And this, of course, is part of the trouble. The newness. Mother and I share a look. I will receive no help from her in the championing of my husband's cause to Father. She thinks it a lost cause. Why, I do not know. I lower my gaze to my spindle, my eyes caught by the movements. The twisting of the fibers plucked from the basket; the winding thread produced by the turning of the spindle in my hand. 

It is our life, this thread. What it is now, and what it can be, if I read it rightly. Different parts coming together into something new. Twists and turns. A joining of destinies - not just Lucomo's and mine. Others. Some powerful, some seemingly impotent, all unknown, whose lives will be bound up with ours and make us stronger. Help us to achieve what we desire, and more. And like the fibers which make up the wool, not all of these others will be of one stock.

The thought should cause at least mild concern to me. But as I spin and consider both our situation and the omen I see in my work, I feel no apprehension. As I am spinning the thread, so shall I spin our destinies. The omen tells me this as well. Lucumo will never be given the respect or power he deserves among our people. The elders see Corinth in the set of his jaw, so like his father's, and in the bronze of his skin. They don't see his mother's eyes or acknowledge this soil as his place of birth. In order for my Lucumo to be the great leader I see in him, and that I have seen in my spinning, we will have to leave Tarquinii entirely. To begin anew in a place where traditions are still mutable, and foreigners are not judged by the tribes of their birth, but by their contributions to society.

"Rome."

I feel the weight of Mother's gaze upon me. When I lift my head to look her in the eyes, she smiles at me, half in amusement, half out of affection. There is conspiracy in her smile.

"I wondered when you would realize it," she says quietly. 

My heart's pace quickens. "How long ago?" I ask.

"Three days," she says. "In much the same manner."

I merely nod. Mother and I are alike in many ways. "Lucumo does not sound very Roman," I whisper. Mother and I put our heads together, full partners in the conspiracy now. "He will have to change it, at least for the public eye and ear."

"It will help him to win over your new people," Mother agrees. She raises an eyebrow. "Will you acknowledge your old people in this name?"

I nod. "Honor the old and look forward to the new."

"Lucius is like to Lucumo, a little," she says. "And Lucius, I understand, is a popular name for Roman men."

Mother sets aside her spindle and rises, smoothing down the long, finely-woven fabric of her tunic. One I helped her to weave a year ago. The detail on the hem is all my work. She motions for me to lay my own spinning aside. The slave girls, noticing our movements, begin to pack up their work as well. I clasp Mother's hand and let her help me to my feet as one of them takes my spindle and basket.

"Don't linger, Tanaquil," she says. "You should tell your husband your good news."

"Are you so eager to be rid of me?" I tease.

Mother shakes her head. I can feel the force of her affection for me, for us both, in her gaze. "Never. But I am eager to see you happy and successful."

We embrace briefly before we say goodbye and I turn my steps toward home. We will see each other again before Lucumo and I depart for the south. But there are many preparations to undertake before we say our final farewells to the Tarquinii. Not the least of which is convincing my Lucumo that "his" idea of emigrating to Rome will be best for us all in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to mirrorshy for beta-reading this for me.


End file.
